


Eight Times Over

by smbrkt



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, he dies like over and over, no lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 21:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1362103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smbrkt/pseuds/smbrkt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Enjolras died, he was nailed to the wall- eight bullets to the chest.  Eight friends he killed.  Eight times he would atone.  The bullets left a burning sensation within his soul, a charred and blackening appendage.  When he would wake again, he’d only have a piece of that crimson, fiery, golden soul within him; only and eighth of that passion and glory and love for the world.  Until he finally died, not in body- as his body was most definitely dead, but in the sense that his eighth-a-soul would leave his body then he could finally rest.  His hand still tingled where it grasped at a fallen man’s skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Times Over

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I had written this because my friend was craving a death fic. That was literally my motivation, hence why it's so short (I wrote it in about 20 minutes). If there are any mistakes in grammar or spelling, I apologize; I haven't edited it.

 

i.

The first time Enjolras died, he was nailed to the wall- eight bullets to the chest.  Eight friends he killed.  Eight times he would atone.  The bullets left a burning sensation within his soul, a charred and blackening appendage.  When he would wake again, he’d only have a piece of that crimson, fiery, golden soul within him; only and eighth of that passion and glory and love for the world.  Until he finally died, not in body- as his body was most definitely dead, but in the sense that his eighth-a-soul would leave his body then he could finally rest.  His hand still tingled where it grasped at a fallen man’s skin.

 

 ii.

The second time he died, it was an accident.  He had been reborn.  And he no longer cared.  As people screamed and cried and were kicked in the streets by corruption, he watched from his balcony.  The second time around, he was only an eighth of a man.  He watched the people below, a film in front of his eyes- a false image, as though a paper screen was set up in front of his brain.  He drank tea and watched the paper screen, a flickering light behind it, as the crowd surged below.

 

A young poet lay on the ground directly beneath the terrace, body beaten and bloodied, and he thought of Jean Prouvaire.  Jean Prouvaire, the one who recited poetry and spun flowers in his hair- regardless of the femininity, as there was “nothing wrong with being as fair as a mademoiselle in the Spring”.  Jean Prouvaire, the one who laughed and cried and sang and fought.  Jean Prouvaire, the one who was captured and tortured and died alone.

 

He sat and sipped his tea, a vague feeling wisping through him.  The boy below was nearly dead, having been trampled by feet and beaten by fists.  A dying, innocent soul.  He sipped his tea and cried; a single tear, welled up and held in his eye, as he looked at the wheezing broken body below.  A shot rang out, and red tears rolled from his crying eye rather than water.

 

 iii.

The third time he died, he had gained another eighth of his soul.  He was now two eighths human, sixth eighths inhuman.  He raved and wrangled; he had gained back his anger.  He fought, and he wrestled, and he roared.  The third time he died, it was no accident.  He still didn’t care for the world, didn’t burn with anger and love for his people- he was pure rage.  He raged against the oppressors and the oppressed; wife beaters and the beaten wives; wealthy and poor.  He had no love in his heart.

 

He was in a bar, though he didn’t drink, and he was fighting, though he wasn’t drunk.  A burly man, who had been crying over his brandy, was his target.  He insulted and hit and mocked and screamed at the man until the sensitive giant became enraged.  It was a gentle beast set loose upon the world.

 

In his mind, the paper screen tore.  One tiny tear.  And, suddenly, it was Bahorel looking down at him, a bar stool held above his head.  Tears streaming down the giant’s face, the face littered with scars from other fights and muscles built from shipping yards, he brought the stool down and battered Enjolras’ brains onto the floor.  He repented.

 

 iv.

The fourth time around, he was killed by another accident- this one more personal.  Rather than a stray shot, he was pushed under a train.  Not by accident but rather by a clumsy man who tripped on his own feet.  A man with a shiny head, but an unfamiliar mustache, and great big overgrown feet.

 

Enjolras had three pieces of his soul and he could feel again.  It was dull and mostly an absent ache but he could listen to music and think past the anger once again.  Enjolras became a miner, suffering along the people, but not truly caring too much- he saw black lung and death and mutilated children daily, but nothing stirred his plastic emotions enough to move.

 

Then he saw the man walking by the train tracks, with his shiny head and his great big feet, and thought of Lesgle.  He heard the train chugging down the track, saw its smoke in the air, and the bald man tripped.  His body seemed to surge towards the train and Enjolras felt his plastic emotions stir.  The tear in the paper screen widened.  He shoved the man to safety, falling onto the track in the momentum, and his body was reduced to mush.

 

 v.

The fifth time around, he was half a man.  He couldn’t control his emotions; they were either up or down.  He could laugh and rage in a moment’s notice.  The death this time was intentional- on his part.  He rope hanging from a ceiling and frantic pacing before climbing the chair to end it all.

 

He had seen a man, with bright red hair and curls, that day.  The man held a smile and spoke Polish and was kind to him, though he was a beggar in an alley.  With some money, all the stranger had on him, he was given a small origami swan the size of his palm.  And he cried- the tears of a lunatic homeless man- and he hugged the unassuming stranger.

 

In his mind, he named the man “Feuilly”.  He had crept into a factory that night and forced the rope into the shape of a noose before hanging himself from the rafters.  He died with tears and soot and a smile on his face.

 

 vi.

The sixth time around, he was five-eighths a man.  He died on a gurney in the middle of a war.  He felt a semblance of his old pride, his love for his country, and decided to fight in a war for his new people.  He wasn’t a very good soldier.  He fought the officers above him and repeatedly ran away from camp.  He cared nothing for the rules.

 

Then he stepped on a mine.  When it exploded, so did he.  Hie legs were torn from his body, half of his right arm with them, and his sight was burned out of his sockets.  An unbearable pain controlled his body, a writhing mass of flesh and bloodied bone on the ground, and he choked on his own blood.

 

A doctor from the enemy’s side had found him lying in the peaceful field, blown to bits, and rushed him to their medical tent.  It was all for naught, as he died to the sound of the doctor’s gentle and calm voice telling him something in a language he didn’t know.  With his last breath he croaked a small, “Combeferre.”

 

vii.

The seventh time around, he was killed at a charity gala.  He was six-eighths a man and, therefore, felt mostly himself.  He could think about the future and the people and improving lives again.  He could give speeches and draw in crowds with his impassioned voice, though in this life his face seemed rather crooked- no one seemed to mind.  He just couldn’t feel love.

 

He had gone to the charity gala with every intention of making a speech and a donation and being on his way when the opposing extremists stormed into the ballroom.  They waved guns around, safety off-fingers on triggers, and began to scream nonsense at the crowd.

 

A black haired man, with pixie ears and a lopsided smile, stood in front of the armed men and challenged them with his eyes.  All he saw was his dearest Center about to get his head blown out.  Enjolras pushed the man with the curls out of the way before the shots hit his body- killing him on impact.  Seven shots.  One more piece to go.

 

 viii.

The eight time around, he was seven-eighths a man.  He was so close to being whole, yet it was just out of reach.  He could feel it brushing against his fingers, a teasing caress.  All Enjolras knew was- he didn’t want to die again.  Death came anyway.

 

Enjolras had been a normal man, in this life, as he was left without that one spark that made him a true revolutionary.  He donated, and he gave speeches, but he didn’t change the world.  He could feel for the street artists and performers but he didn’t fight or their plights.

 

And then he saw him: a scruffy, ugly, hunched artist.  The man had crooked teeth, too wide eyes, and a jagged nose.  And he felt himself weeping before the sight of the man’s blue-blue eyes.  Eyes that struck him to the ground, his feet immobile.  And the car hit, his body hit the windshield before being tossed on the street like a wet rag.  The last thing he saw was the scruffy man crying over his face, wetness staining Enjolras’ cheeks, and hearing a broken whisper, “Enjolras.”

 

 ix.

He was whole again, finally connecting to the last piece of himself on the barricade.  He had repented and he was forgiven.  Though his soul was forever scarred, with thick lines, connecting all the tattered pieces together.  And he was happy.  And he felt love.

**Author's Note:**

> I am official-combeferre on tumblr, if anyone wants to talk or yell at me about killing Enjolras so many times.


End file.
